“Robert quit the agency almost a month ago, but your brother says he doesn’t know why.”
“Well, I would have no idea,” Madeleine replied casually. “I don’t know much about the business, but I do know that people come and go and don’t always offer explanations.” She shrugged and gave the men her dazzling smile. “But why is there all this interest in Robert Eads? Has he done something wrong?”
“You don’t know that he was murdered night before last?”
Madeleine’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh no! How awful!”
“You didn’t hear about it on the news, either?”
“I was at the hospital all day yesterday with my mother.”
Corrigan finally spoke up. “They have televisions at the hospital, Ms. Townsend, and the murder topped every broadcast.”
“I didn’t watch television. I read.” She glanced at her pale, silent brother and asked the detectives quickly, “Do you know who killed Mr. Eads?”
“No, ma’am, not yet,” Myers said.
“May I ask why you’re questioning Aaron about him?”
“Because Eads worked for your brother until fairly recently. We thought Mr. Townsend might know something about Robert’s habits.”
“Habits?” Aaron snapped in a strained voice. “What kind of habits?”
“The kind of habits that could get him killed,” Myers said equably.
“Like drugs?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” Myers returned. “You knew him. I didn’t.”
Aaron began to jiggle his foot. “I told you I barely knew him. He was just an employee. He didn’t confide in me. Why are you asking about drugs? Did you find drugs in his system?”
“Actually, you mentioned drugs, not us. Besides, we don’t have all the tests back yet,” Myers said.
“Well, I don’t know anything about his personal life, but I never saw any evidence that he did drugs when he was at work,” Aaron said. “He was very . . . efficient.”
Aaron noticed Myers relax a bit. Maybe they were satisfied and ready to leave, he thought, almost leaping from his chair to show them to the door. Then he saw Corrigan lean forward and realized the two detectives were just taking turns.
“Eads was involved with someone at your firm, wasn’t he?” Jay asked. “Romantically, I mean.”
“Involved? Romantically?” Aaron heard his voice rising and did his best to lower it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He dated Brooke Yeager for a while, didn’t he?”
Jay had meant Brooke, Aaron realized. Thank God. “Oh yes,” he said, forcing himself to sound offhand. “I don’t meddle in my employees’ private lives, but I believe someone did mention to me that Brooke and Robert were seeing each other. As long as it didn’t interfere with their work, I didn’t care what they did. Together, that is, although they weren’t right for each other.”
Aaron had no idea why he’d made that last statement except that secretly he’d always felt jealous when he saw Robert with Brooke, even though Robert had assured him the relationship was a sham. At the moment, though, his subconscious seemed to be doing his talking for him.
“You thought they weren’t right for each other?” Corrigan asked. “Why?”
Both detectives were looking at him with intense interest, and even Madeleine had given him a sharp glance. Aaron scrambled for an answer. “When couples work in the same office and break up, there are bad feelings, and it makes for an uncomfortable workplace. That’s all I meant.”
“Oh. Then weren’t you going against your own policy when you dated Judith Lambert last year?” Corrigan asked.
“Well, yes, I was. I’m afraid that was a case of my asking her to accompany me to a formal affair because I was between girlfriends. Judith took the invitation wrong, thinking it was more serious than it was. I should have stopped seeing her immediately, but I stupidly let the relationship drift for a while because she could be good company. When I finally ended it, she didn’t take it well.” He laughed far too loudly. “That’s why I don’t like for my employees to date. Personal experience.”
“I see what you mean,” Corrigan said, then abruptly added, “Since you didn’t even know Robert Eads was dead, I’m sure you didn’t know his body was found by Brooke Yeager.”
“Oh, my!” Madeleine uttered in distress. “How . . . shocking for her! Where was the body?”
“In the alley beside her apartment building beside the Dumpster. Actually, it was her dog who found it. Apparently it picked up Eads’s scent.”
“Oh dear,” Madeleine went on. “Poor Brooke. She must have just been horrified!”
“Naturally she was upset, although she’d been having trouble with Eads.” Corrigan addressed his comments to Madeleine. “Apparently Mr. Eads didn’t take their breakup well. He kept calling her and following her, even coming to her apartment and pounding on the door, insisting on seeing her. She said she was thinking of getting a restraining order against him.”
“Really?” Aaron uttered a laugh that sounded like a squawk.
Madeleine quickly broke in. “Yes, Aaron, but you’ve always said Brooke could be rather paranoid.” He looked at her and blinked. He’d never said any such thing. But the detectives were looking at her, not him, and that was a blessing. “Of course, I’m sure you know all about her background—her mother’s murder, her testimony that helped put her stepfather in prison, and now his escape,” Madeleine continued. “And Mia’s murder could only add to Brooke’s emotional problems. Yes, I can definitely see Brooke cracking under the least bit of pressure, even if it was just a few calls from an ex-boyfriend.”
“Cracking under pressure?” Jay asked harshly. “Are you implying that Miss Yeager killed Robert Eads because he was annoying her?”
“It sounds as if he was doing more than annoying her, but I certainly didn’t mean to imply she would hurt Robert. My goodness, no,” Madeleine protested.
Aaron looked at Jay. Although the detective’s face was expressionless, Aaron saw something in the man’s eyes. Suspicion? And not of Brooke. Suddenly, Aaron felt as if he could not sit and talk to these men for one more minute without exploding with the truth about him and Robert. Aaron had no idea where the urge came from—maybe from some childish fear that used to force him always to tell authority figures the truth—but the urge was almost overpowering.
“Gentlemen, I hate to be rude, but you must know that the funeral of Mia Walters is at one o’clock. I haven’t even showered and dressed yet. I’m afraid I have to start getting ready, and since I can’t be of any help in the matter of Robert Eads . . .”
“You’d appreciate us leaving,” Myers said. “Certainly, Mr. Townsend. We understand. And we thank you for your time.” Aaron followed the two detectives to the door on shaking legs. Madeleine stuck close behind him, as if she thought he might swoon into her arms. He felt like a fool. Myers turned and smiled at Madeleine. “So nice to meet you, Ms. Townsend. Maybe next time we can have some of that wonderful coffee you offered us.”
Next time? Aaron thought in dread.
“All you have to do is let me know about the coffee and I’ll be glad to make some for you,” Madeleine said smoothly. “Aaron has tons of it and it really is delicious. Good-bye, gentlemen.”
As the detectives neared their car, Aaron closed the door and looked at his sister. “Well, that was bracing,” he said, his voice tinny and thin.
Madeleine looked at him for a long moment, her expression grim and her gaze searing. “Yes, it certainly was,” she said finally, and then, “Aaron, they didn’t believe a word you said. They know there was more—much more—going on between you and Robert than you’re willing to admit.” She paused again, her beautiful eyes narrowing slightly. “And so do I.”
Outside, Hal Myers took the driver’s seat and waited for Jay Corrigan to get in. When he did, Myers asked, “Well, what did you think?”
“First of all, I’ve known Brooke Yeager for a while now and I can tell you she i
sn’t paranoid, even after all that’s happened to her.”
“Interesting,” Myers said. “Anything else?”
“I noticed that neither one of them claimed to even know about the murder, which I find a little coincidental.” Jay stared straight ahead, a tiny crease forming between his eyebrows. “I also noticed something else.” He looked at Hal. “Neither one of them asked how Eads had been killed.”
“No, they didn’t, did they?” Slowly, Hal smiled. “They told me you were good, Corrigan. I think I’m going to enjoy having you for a partner.”
2
Brooke slipped a sleeveless black linen dress over her head, and nearly pulled a muscle reaching for the long zipper running up the back. “Perfect, at last,” she breathed as the zipper finally ran up to the neckline. She rummaged through the closet until she found a waist-length white and gray jacket with short sleeves that gave the dress the proper air of formality. She was just struggling to fasten a dainty freshwater-pearl necklace when someone knocked on her door.
Elise stiffened and barked at the door, a new trait she’d developed since all the trouble had begun and she’d sensed Brooke’s tension. No wonder, Brooke thought. A stranger breaking in to leave a note, Robert pounding on the door, finding a corpse by the Dumpster . . . The already timid dog was probably on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Brooke went to the door but made no move to open it. “Who is it?” she called.
“Vincent.”
“Vincent?”
“Vincent Lockhart, ma’am.”
Brooke opened the door, smiling. “You didn’t have to give your last name.”
“I’m not sure about that. You acted like you’d never heard of me before.”
He wore a navy blue suit, which somehow made his eyes look even greener. “Why are you all dressed up?” Brooke asked.
“Because I’m going to Mia’s funeral with you. I don’t think you should go alone.” He paused. “You were going alone, weren’t you?”
“Well, with my police escort, but not a friend.”
“Then here’s a friend at your service.”
Abruptly, Brooke’s smile faded. “Your father made you do this, didn’t he?”
“No, Miss Yeager, it was completely my idea.”
Brooke’s smile returned. “Well, how kind of you.”
“I have been known to be capable of kindness upon occasion.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have. And I really didn’t want to go alone, especially under the circumstances. Stacy would have gone with me, of course, but she has to work today. I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Yes, you can.”
“How?”
“By letting me in the door.”
“Good heavens! I guess that shows the state of my nerves today. Come in, please.”
He stepped in and Elise trotted over to him, holding up her narrow head to be petted. She never did that with Robert, Brooke thought. And Robert never stooped down, took her face in his hands, and told her what a beautiful girl she was. Elise wagged her tail so ecstatically it was almost a blur.
“You said you were a dog lover.”
“I sure am,” Vincent said. “At home in Monterey I have an Irish setter named Rusty and a black long-haired mixed-breed named Lady Blackwell.” He sighed. “I miss them.”
“Are they in a kennel?”
“No, they’re with friends who have children. The dogs love the kids so much, they probably don’t even want me to come home.”
“I doubt that,” Brooke said. “You’re their master.”
“’Fraid not. They are my master and mistress. They just let me hang around the house as long as I don’t get in their way.”
“Gee, I wonder how they got so spoiled?”
“No idea,” Vincent laughed. Then he ran his gaze over her. “You look very nice.”
“Thank you. But I’d give anything not to be going to this particular occasion. Mia was so young, so ebullient, so bright. Dying young is a tragedy, but knowing she died in my place is almost more than I can bear. Zach was aiming for me, Vincent, not for poor Mia.”
Vincent stepped forward and almost tentatively put his arms around Brooke. She stood stiff and embarrassed for a moment, then relaxed, moved closer to him, and laid her head on his chest. “I’m not going to cry on your suit,” she said, as tears began to spill down her chest.
“Do you want me to take it off?”
Brooke giggled, crying at the same time. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll just be careful.”
His arms tightened. “Don’t be careful. Cry all over it if you want to. It’s not my best suit.”
“I’m glad to hear that, because you already have tears on your shoulder. And mascara, too, I think. I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” he said gently, putting his hand under her chin and tilting back her head. “I think you’re awful.”
His kiss was slow and soft, and Brooke didn’t want it to ever end. Her arms twined around his neck and her hand ran through his curly, amazingly soft black hair at the base of his neck. He smelled so good—fresh like a clean mountain morning—and his body felt strong and powerful, as if he could protect her from anything. The kiss deepened and Brooke sighed without really sighing, feeling as if she wanted to melt right into him. Her dress was probably getting wrinkled, her makeup smeared, but she didn’t want to let go of him. Not ever.
Then Elise barked sharply. They both jumped and the dog barked again. Slowly they pulled apart and looked at her, standing on a chair, glaring at them as if they were two teenagers locked in a forbidden embrace. “Is she going to attack us?” Vincent murmured, still kissing Brooke along the forehead.
“No. She’s upset because she’s jealous.”
“She doesn’t want anyone kissing her mother?”
“No. She doesn’t want her mother kissing you. I think she’s decided she’s in love with you.”
“The curse of my fatal charm,” Vincent muttered, then placed his lips on Brooke’s again. But she stepped back. “Vincent, we can’t do this.”
“Because of Elise?”
“Because we’re going to the funeral of my friend who died in my place. I have no right to be . . . to be . . .”
“Happy?”
“Yes, happy,” she said meekly, then burst out, “Yes, happy. Attracted. Aroused. Alive!”
“You have every right to be alive,” Vincent said quietly.
“Not in Mia’s place. Not because the sweet young thing was trying to look like me and it was dark and I have a stepfather who wants to murder me!”
Vincent stepped closer to her but made no move to hold her. He only gazed into her eyes, his own so mesmerizing she couldn’t look away. “The key word in what you just said is ‘stepfather.’ You didn’t do anything to Mia or to your mother. Zachary Tavell did. He’s the one who bears the guilt, Brooke, not you.”
Brooke finally managed to shut her eyes, causing more tears to roll down her face. “Intellectually I know that. But emotionally I don’t. I couldn’t help Mom, but if Zach had gotten me, too, then—”
“Then Mia would be alive now. Good God, Brooke, is that what you’ve been torturing yourself with?”
“It’s true.”
“It’s a possibility. That’s all. Hell, if Mia hadn’t been killed that night, maybe she would have stepped in front of a bus the next day or crashed in a plane the next week. Maybe it was her time to die.”
“Her time to die? Vincent, I’ve been around you long enough to know you’re not a man of faith, someone who believes everything happens because it’s predestined. You don’t believe all those people you write about were predestined to be viciously murdered. You believe they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or they met the wrong person. And for Mia, I was the wrong person.”
“Brooke, stop it,” Vincent said quietly. “Just stop it. You do not know what I believe about fate versus coincidence. You’re attributing your own beliefs to me, and I’m sorry to
say this, but your beliefs are more than a little skewed by all that’s happened to you in your short life.”
“Well, thank you very much for telling me I’m crazy!”
“I didn’t say anything about you being crazy.” Vincent closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, then took a small step toward her. “You’re not crazy, but you’ve gotten the idea that you’re a magnet for misfortune. It’s why a beautiful, intelligent, warm, basically joyous woman has so few friends, has dated such a little bit, and when she does settles for someone like Robert, who didn’t give a damn about you except as a mask for someone he did love. You think you don’t deserve anything good in life and if something good does come your way, you’d better shun it before you inadvertently destroy it.”
Brooke raised a defiant face to him. “Well, aren’t you just full of psychological insight today!”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Brooke glared at him. “Brooke, baby—”
“Do not ever call me baby. Or babe. Or any of those other stupid endearments you use on your adoring California airheads!”
Vincent rolled his eyes. “Okay, Miss Yeager, I’ll watch my language from now on. And may I say that not every woman in California is an airhead. Talk about stereotyping!”
Brooke breathed heavily for a moment, looking away from him. Finally she said, “You’re right. I was stereotyping.”
“Is that all I was right about?”
She looked away again, wiped a hand over one damp, streaked cheek, then glanced at Elise, who sat quietly in the chair quivering with nerves over the controversy playing out in front of her. Elise. Brooke loved Elise. But who else had she loved in the last few years? She counted. Of course, Grossmutter. And the memory of her parents. And she cared for Stacy and Jay. And . . . and . . . and no one except for Mia, whom she barely knew.
Reluctantly, she said, “Maybe you weren’t entirely wrong.”
“Under the circumstances, I’ll take that as a ringing endorsement of my theory.”
“I don’t know that you should go that far.”
“Okay. An endorsement that doesn’t ring true?”
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